Krystallnacht 1938
I fear the sound of booted feet.
They inspire painful memories
though fragmented and incomplete
I can recall so vividly
The sound of breaking glass and boots.
I was too young to understand
the screaming jeers and gleeful hoots.
As storm troopers took full command
and attacked Jewish properties.
Without restraint from anyone
protestors beaten to their knees.
All semblance of the law had gone.
November nineteen thirty eight
The Nazis had proscribed the Jews
the ninth a night of spite and hate.
Who lost all that they had to lose..
My parents sent me to the States
a privilege for which they had to pay
with everything they had. It grates
upon me still that I survived.
because of their self sacrifice.
The guilt I feel still eats away
because they paid the final price.
I know I am alive today.
Because some cousins took me in
and raised me as American.
Although I was but distant kin
Though I would rather not, I can
recall that night so long ago.
The cries of men in agony
how much is true I do not know.
In dreams I see so vividly
The dreadful scenes I did not see
deeply etched in memory.
A turning point in history.
affecting my whole world and me.
I was a child of only eight
The Nazis killed my family
Though I was saved I had to wait
Til we defeated Germany.
To know for certain they were dead
along with many millions more.
The sound of boots fills me with dread.
I’m glad I can’t remember more.
Now I have children of my own
a fit old man of seventy.
I wonder If I could have shown
their courage which would send me free.
To strangers in a far off land
where they decided I would be
safer. I think I can understand
their only thought was to save me.
I wonder where it all began
I see no reason for it still.
Mans inhumanity to man
and don’t suppose I ever will.
30-Nov-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Saving grace for M'ladyAnn Beard
Moonlight on the water glowing gently. As the tide out flowing
leaves silver traces on the sand. I think that now I understand,
the feeling of serenity. Which quickly flooded over me.
From being lonely and depressed I felt as though I had been blessed.
Bathed in the Goddess’ radiance I was given a second chance.
To be who I was meant to be, that peaceful night beside the sea.
I can recall it vividly. It was a peak experience
I still hold her in reverence.Although I have no evidence.
to prove to you my words are true do not feel that I need to.
Unless touched by the Goddess’ hand you simply would not understand
So I began my life anew because the Goddess bid me to.
The goddess cares for her children, she gave me confidence again.
I know that I can make the grade I face the future unafraid.
19-Dec-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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An Oak Wood Piano on Kristallnacht
The SS guard hit Zindel Grynszpan on the head and he fell
Into a ditch. Father, he heard the voice of his son, you must
Go on. Zindel took the hand of his son and climbed out of
The trench. With his wife, a son and daughter on his side
They continued the march. But the SS guards did not stop
The savage whipping of the deportees. Blood was flowing
On all sides.
The Grynszpan family were Polish Jews from Hanover.
When the Nazis came to power they became outcasts.
In October 1938 they were expelled from Germany
And deported to Poland in a group of 12,000 Jews.
They were taken by train to the frontier town Neubenschen
And from there on foot to the German-Polish border.
When they reached the border heavy rain started to fall.
The Nazis confiscated their money. They had no food to eat.
Polish officers arrived and began to inspect their papers.
They admitted the refugees with Polish passports,
Housing them in military stables. Old, sick and children
Were herded together in most inhuman conditions.
One of the first things that Zindel did in Poland was to send
A postcard to his seventeen year old son Hirsch in Paris.
When Hirsch Grynszpan read the family’s tribulations
He became furious. His heart was filled with rage and hatred
And he decided to avenge their sufferings. On the morning
Of November 7, Hirsch entered a gunsmith’s shop on rue
Faubourg Saint-Martin and purchased a 6.35 calibre pistol
With a box of 25 bullets, for 235 Francs.
Then he took a ride on the Metro to the Solferino stop
And walked to the German Embassy at 78 rue de Lille.
Hirsch told the receptionist that he has some documents with him.
He was received by Ernst vom Rath, the third secretary.
When the German diplomat closed the door Hirsch pulled out
The gun. “You are a filthy Kraut”, he said, “and in the name of
12,000 persecuted Jews here is the document”. He fired five
Bullets from point blank range at vom Rath. The diplomat died
Two days later of his wounds.
The assassination came as a godsend thing for the Nazis.
Hitler denounced it as part of a global Jewish conspiracy
Against Germany. It became a pretext for the well-orchestrated
Pogrom of Kristallnacht, the night of broken glass.
During the night of November 9-10,1938, in every place
Throughout the Third Reich, Storm Troops attacked Jews
And Jewish institutions.
Hitler’s henchmen burnt down or destroyed in Germany
Nearly two hundred synagogues. They burst into Jewish houses,
Broke the glass of Jewish businesses and beat up Jews wherever
They found them. About ninety people were murdered
And thousands of others were wounded in the street violence.
The Nazis also arrested thirty thousand Jews and sent them
To concentration camps in Buchenwald, Dachau,
And Sachsenhausen. And on top of all this, the Reich
Cynically imposed a billion mark penalty
On the Jewish Community to pay for the damages.
In Berlin hundreds of truncheon swinging storm troops
Led the mob in smashing up the glass plate windows
Of Jewish stores. In the Jewish neighbourhoods of German
Cities the Nazis lit bonfires. They threw on them to burn
Torah scrolls, prayer books and whole libraries. Thousands
Of Germans joined the Storm Troops in the atrocities.
But many resented the pogrom. People watched in horror
The roundup; they cried silently behind their curtains.
On a third floor balcony in Leipzig
Storm Troops shattered a balustrade and pushed
An upright oak wood piano over the edge. It plunged like
A black wingless dragon and fell helplessly to the street.
It crashed on the pavement with a shocking clamour.
Its wooden casing had split. The strings stripped bare
Stood in the middle of the wreckage as an orphan harp
Screaming with a heartbreaking outcry.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Indelible Guilt.
Indelible Guilt.
More scenes of devastation.
The tides of war have left behind.
A naked child wanders alone.
She does not know the ground is mined.
She cries for aid but there is none
There is nobody left to care.
The tides of war have come and gone.
Death and destruction everywhere.
The lucky ones are those who died.
Though she survived: What chance has she
A helpless infant cast aside.
To starve to death most probably.
She may be killed by predators.
Who see her as their lawful prey.
Obeying Mother Nature’s law
Because they know no other way.
Kill or be killed the age old law
Instinctively they all obey
Each and every predator
The hunter can become the prey.
But Man the greatest predator
Brushes Natures rules aside
His greatest skill is making war
His blood lust never satisfied.
What of the child? No one can say
It must remain a mystery
The memory haunts me still today
When I look back regretfully.
The guilt I feel is permanent
Does not abate with passing years.
Still flashbacks to that incident.
Reduce me to impotent tears.
That is the price that soldiers pay.
For answering their countries call.
A guilt that will not fade away
and makes no difference at all.
Though we recall the heroes fall.
No one records the innocent
The weakest ones go the wall
By long established precedent.
It seems that we will never learn
The lessons taught by history
Each generation in its turn.
Must learn experientially.
There are no winners in a war.
The strong survive the weak must die.
Mother Natures age old law
When demand exceeds supply.
Sunday,18 December 2011
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Access Denied
Ofttimes enwrapt in reverie
I have a distant memory
but I cannot be sure it’s true
Of my mother who I barely knew.
She died so very long ago.
There is so much I do not know
I only know what I’ve been told
and that recedes as I grow old.
Although I try I can’t recall
her face: bring it to mind at all.
I feel I should be able to
but there is nothing I can do.
Sometimes I wake to find I’ve wept.
But I can do nothing but accept.
That time’s erased the memory
of the face I long to see.
Some faded photographs remain
which I look at, try to regain.
The memories I have repressed
It may be that it’s for best.
I was so young when mother died.
My wants and needs were satisfied.
By father and the family
and I grew up quite happily.
Would mother have been proud of me?
I she’d lived long enough to see.
The man her little boy grew into.
My mother who I barely knew.
Then I remember guiltily
my mother lost much more than me.
The grandchildren she’d never know
the chance to see her children grow.
But I still pursue selfishly
that one elusive memory.
That’s buried somewhere deep inside
A need that can’t be satisfied.
Perhaps because I’m growing old
and only have what I was told
to remember mother by.
I know I’ll fail but I still try.
24/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Remembrance Day
Remembrance Day.
Poulters Measure
This day when we recall; the fighting men who fall
We stand erect, heads bowed in silence to show our respect.
For men who died for freedoms cause; who gave their all
Who made the supreme sacrifice, dying to protect.
The right of all men to be free: Answered the call.
But we forget although we demonstrate our deep respect.
The lessons taught by history. Ignored by all
Soldiers on either side die to no effect.
Now though we stand in silent respect to recall
The men who fell.I can see no reason to expect
that things will change sufficiently, if at all
I fear the future looks to be a grim prospect.
This day set aside to remember all the men who fall.
with due respect; but sadly say that I suspect
Remembrance Day makes no difference at all.
Sunday,06 November 2001
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Unforgettable.
I remember, I remember
Every year in November.
The night I saw a young boy die.
Every year I wonder why..
Could this death have been prevented.
Yes if people were contented.
just to stand and watch the show
instead running to and fro
Throwing bangers at each other
and in general causing bother
Demonstrating lack of sense,
careless of the consequence
A firework set him on fire.
The flames spread quickly rising higher.
In his panic he chose to run.
The last thing that he should have done.
It was the last mistake he made.
By the time we rendered first aid.
He was burnt from head to toe.
We knew it would be touch and go.
Despite the efforts of a nurse
his condition became worse.
He died before help could arrive.
There was no way he could survive.
On Guy Fawkes Night I stay indoors.
I think I have sufficient cause.
I can remember vividly
a small boy dying tragically.
I remember, I remember
Every year in November.
The night I saw a young boy die
every year I wonder why.
26/10/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Far Memory.
I’m haunted by strange memories
of places I have never been
I can remember vividly
Street scenes I know I have not seen
It’s very strange and puzzles me.
I cannot see how possibly
I have access to memories
I know do not belong to me.
I see street scenes from long ago.
Though where they are I do not know.
The clothes are unfamiliar.
To me they seem peculiar.
I think it may be Budapest.
But honestly that’s just a guess.
It could be almost anywhere.
But I am sure I’ve not been there.
My wife suggests telepathy.
I do not see how it could be.
A temporal anomaly
which can’t exist apparently.
The learned experts all agree
it’s an impossibility
But can’t explain how I can see
Scenes from the eighteenth century.
I have a photograph which shows.
People in old fashioned clothes.
Which was taken in old Moscow
More than a hundred years ago.
Establishing the verity
Of the intrusive memories
The scenes I see so vividly.
Though how remains a mystery.
I know they are real memories.
Although the experts disagree.
I hope to prove eventually
these memories have reality.
They are passed down genetically.
Encoded in our DNA.
I will research my family tree
and try to prove it come what may.
Although it’s just a theory.
I will pursue it ardently
Some body in my ancestry
may well turn out to be.
A man who lived in old Moscow
Who emigrated to the west.
Although perhaps I’ll never know.
It gives my life an interest.
I like to think that there might be
somebody in my family tree.
Who will prove to be the key
which will unlock the mystery.
Of who perhaps I used to be
in the eighteenth century.
Which would explain the memories
apparently passed down to me
Saturday,21 August 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Holocaust
In a cold and silent world, weeping people wait,
Hoping and praying to not face this solemn fate.
But even thought they were quiet, as quite as they could be,
They were still found in the dark ghettos, the whole Jewish family.
The cries from the little ones so confused and so afraid,
Were ignored by the wretched Nazis, who caused heartbreak in that day.
They led them on a tearful trail toward to dreaded Auschwitz place.
And treated them like guinea pigs. testing them face to face.
Not to care in the world did the Nazi leaders possess,
Toward the unfair treatment to which placed the Jews in distress.
And all these fears and terrors led up to this fatal loss,
Of all the millions of innocent Jews killed in the Holocaust.
poem by Brenda Kodesh
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I live for my dreams.
She comes to me in dreams at night.
And holds me as she used to do.
But disappears by morning light
So I am left to grieve anew..
There’s no one left to comfort me
My family are long since gone.
I wait for nightfall eagerly
Just for a while I’m not alone.
Each night before I sleep I pray
My love will come to visit me.
Although I’ll face another day
of loneliness and misery.
They say that passing time will heal.
For some perhaps it may be true.
But not for me because I feel
the anguish still of losing you.
I know somewhere you wait for me.
You can’t return and won’t go on.
You know we have eternity.
That I will follow where you’ve gone.
When death released you from your pain.
And left your spirit free to fly.
You promised me we’d meet again.
Now all I do is wonder why.
Fate decided that we should be.
Forced to go our separate ways
Parted arbitrarily.
Condemning me to lonely days.
She comes to me by night in dreams
and holds me as she used to do
When for a while at least it seems
as if my dreams will soon come true.
I pray each night I will not wake.
To be set free to rejoin you.
A journey I will gladly make.
There’s nothing here for me to do.
Tuesday,15 March 2011
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Esmerald for J.T.Earley.
She danced as though she was possessed.
Perhaps she was I do not know.
Her heels beat out a staccato.
I have to say she was the best
exponent of the flamenco
that I have seen or hope to see.
She became part of the flow
went with the music totally.
Although it was so long ago.
I still recall it vividly.
A memory I won’t let go.
until the day they bury me.
Still in my minds eye I can see
the gypsy dancing wantonly.
2-May-0
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Fantasy or Fact? for friend C.P Sharma
I am not dead nor do I live.
I hover somewhere in between
No explanation I can give
will prove to be sufficient to.
Describe exactly how I feel.
I long to stay but want to go.
To who or what do I appeal?
I am confused I do not know.
When I return to consciousness
and find I am myself again.
Gone is the sense of timelessness.
I am content and free from pain.
I knew deaths door was open wide
but knew my family needed me.
I did not choose to step inside.
It could have been a fantasy.
I’m sure some few will understand
but only those who have been there.
Most will dismiss it out of hand.
Though not because they do not care.
They simply cannot comprehend
they lack the sensitivity.
To know that death can be a friend
who is prepared to set you free.
But in the end the choice is yours.
It is your life you must decide
which would be the better course.
To just give up or to abide.
I don’t remember which I chose
but obviously I am still here.
I must have chosen I suppose.
But on that point I am not clear.
I can remember vividly
The doctors crowding round my bed
Whilst I was floating happily
and watching from above their heads..
Fantasy or reality
I do not know but I am sure
That it has wrought a change in me
that’s permanent and will endure.
No longer will I fear to die.
I know that death is not the end.
I am quite sure but know not why.
My enemy is now my friend.
I know that death will set me free
When my time comes then I will go
Released from my earthly body.
Towards a future I can’t know.
22/10/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Harsh Reality for M 'lady Fay
Although I truly empathise
with your desire to fantasise.
It is my task to emphasise.
Although you day dream happily
escaping from reality
Your must return eventually.
There is one rule all must obey
although you would much rather stay.
Your fantasies must fade away.
You know that what I say is true.
Although your job is boring you.
It’s something that you have to do.
So save your dreams for when you sleep
and have no deadlines you must keep.
If you do not the price is steep.
You will get fired right away
you’ll have no job and get no pay
But you’ll be free to dream all day.
If you are wise you’ll listen to
the sound advice I’m giving you
and do what you are paid to do.
You cannot live on fantasies
you have to pay for groceries.
That’s one of life’s realities.
22-Dec-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Faded photograph
A snapshot taken years ago.
Somewhat lacking clarity.
Of some young guys I used to know
In fact the skinny one is me.
The other two I can recall,
their faces well but not their names
Although I try nothing at all.
My memory is playing games
I wonder where they are today
I wonder if they remember me
The passing years erode away
your memories ability.
To regain any access to
some things you know that you once knew
Monday,13 February 2012
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Recollections for friend T'J Becker
The butter lamps cast a soft glow.
As chanting monks in unison
their voices blending come and go
to raise their morning orison.
And thus begins another day
that’s filled with studying and prayer
As these devotees seek the way
The motive which has brought them there.
Although their faith I do not share.
I can share their serenity
Which permeates the very air.
A scene which still entrances me
I can recall it vividly
from memory so easily.
16-Sep-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Inexplicable.
The night was cold but still and clear.
As I patrolled the riverside.
I felt a sudden twinge of fear.
Quite suddenly I was terrified.
It was a strange experience.
I saw no reason for my fear.
It went against my common sense
When I thought I saw appear.
Two figure from the distant past.
A sailor and his light of love.
Fear for the moment held me fast.
Although I tried I could not move.
The sailor struck her on the head
with some heavy implement.
To make quite sure that she was dead.
Another blow more violent.
Then he made off and left her there.
He had done what he intended to.
Whilst I was forced to stand and stare.
There was nothing I could do,
When I could move I went to where.
I had seen her body fall
Her battered body was not there.
There was no blood no sign at all.
When I regained my self control.
Of course I double checked the scene.
Then carried on with my patrol.
Convinced myself that I had been.
Confused by some trick of the light.
It's possible I might have been.
But I won't forget that night
nor what I thought that I had seen.
The memory still bothered me.
When I retired I found the time.
To study local history.
I found a record of the crime.
A woman's body had been found
Beside the waters of the Tyne.
Just left abandoned on the ground
She died in eighteen twenty nine.
Was I transported back in time?
On that cold evening long ago
.Was I a witness to that foul crime?
I cannot say I do not know.
Though I remember vividly.
The murder scene I thought I saw.
A trick of light most probably.
Though I shall wonder evermore.
Tuesday,07 February 2012
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Silent Eloquence for M lady Dee Daffodil
They say dead men do not tell tales.
This once was true but not today
Forensic science rarely fails.
Technology has shown the way.
We re-examine evidence
long thought to be of little use.
Our scrutiny is so intense,
that criminals are bound to lose.
Although they think they’re free and clear.
No one can tie them to their crime,
we’re dogged and we persevere.
We do not rush, we take our time.
Some criminals who still walk free
will soon discover that we can
prove their guilt indisputably.
In variably we get our man.
We have the latest gadgetry
we can recover D.N.A
from tiny fragments easily.
Eventually then you will pay.
The full price for your evil deed
although you think you’ve got away.
We will persist til we succeed.
We’re on your track and there we’ll stay.
We’ll forge a chain of evidence
that proves your guilt beyond all doubt
Then you will pay for your offence.
As in due course you will find out.
When you are brought before the court
No doubt you will plead not guilty.
You aren’t as clever as you thought.
You thought you’d got away Scott free.
Although Dame Justice may be blind.
She is prepared to listen to
any evidence we can find.
That pins the blame squarely on you..
Dead men can speak eloquently
and do when we investigate
assisted by technology
You can’t escape it is too late.
23-Jan-09
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Day by Day
I think it is impossible
To recall ev’ryone you met
and also highly probable.
That some you’re happy to forget.
The first lover who broke your heart,
Imprinted deep in memory.
Though you suspected from the start,
this was a dream which could not be.
The petty boss that bullied you.
When you were young and powerless.
It’s odd but you recall him too.
Though not with any kindliness.
Yet good friends fade from memory
erased by quickly passing years
almost you’d think impossible,
You wonder if you’ve slipped from theirs.
Although you meant to keep in touch.
You never did too much to do.
I wonder does it matter
because they have forgotten too.
Par for the course I understand.
Although sometimes spontaneously
they come to mind; you can’t command
the actions of your memory.
The present matters not the past.
It is consigned to history,
the pace of life is far too fast.
To take time out for reverie.
We touch on others and affect
each other in some subtle way
That is the truth we must accept.
We really live from day to day.
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Low Down
Mother; remember I am small
a little over two feet tall
My view from here is limited
the shopping mall a place of dread.
Boots and shoes are all I see
as people rush impatiently.
You have forgotten how it feels
to see only toes and heels.
You hold me firmly by the hand
but I don’t think you understand
Just how it feels to be so small
and dragged around a shopping Mall.
If you ere small and couldn’t see
then you would know what frightens me.
16-May-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Lost treasures
Her jewel box is full of dreams
It is to her or so it seems
as Grandmas aged fingers play
with jewels of a bygone day.
Some are of gold and precious stones
but they are not her favourite ones
It is the lesser ones that free
the floodgates of her memory.
A crystal pendant will recall
the night she went to her first ball
Sweet seventeen and innocent.
The crystal pendant her present.
from father who insists that she
his little princess has to be.
The fairest flower of them all
who graced the debutantes ball.
The cheaper trinkets stimulate
vignettes which are more intimate
Fond memories she never shared
perhaps because she never dared.
She sits absorbed in reverie
as she remembers vividly
The golden memories of her youth.
Although in fact to tell the truth.
Her short term memory is gone
but distant memories linger on.
Her body insists she must rest
she quickly loses interest.
How sad it is for us to see
the woman that she used to be
become as helpless as a child.
A truth to which we’re reconciled.
I pray each day for her release
Alzheimers is dread disease
I am quite sure she’d rather be
dead than devoid of dignity.
20-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Eyes: those tragic eyes,
It was her eyes, those tragic eyes
The saddest eyes I ever saw.
That made me start to realise.
The price that children pay for war.
Those eyes had seen brutalities
no innocent should ever see
She haunted still by memories
from which I fear she can’t break free.
I look into her eyes and see
that she expects nothing from me.
She has no hope that there might be
an ending to her misery.
Although I know I’m not to blame
I still feel guilty all the same.
Though we protest our innocence
in our attempts to rationalise.
What can we say in self defence.
That is not based on blatant lies.
It makes me frankly furious
that innocents should suffer so
The guilt belongs to all of us.
We can’t pretend we did not know
That we should learn from history
instead of choosing to ignore
Because we do not want to see.
There are no winners in a war.
I can’t forget those empty eyes
They’ll haunt me ‘til the day I die.
Monday,08 November 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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